Honor Your Father
by silver ruffian
Summary: Sam's been dead for over fifteen years, and Dean makes himself pay for it, each and every day.


Title:** Honor Your Father**

Type: AU – very dark fic

Fandom: Supernatural

POV: Dean Winchester

Word Count: 4,659

Pairings: Dean/John

Characters: Dean, John, and Ghost!Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Rumsfeld and his junkyard dog posse, YED, mention of Ellen Harvelle

Warnings: Character death, plenty of Dean-whumping, cursing, m/m sex (dubious con), violence, implied torture

Summary: Sam's been dead for over fifteen years now, and Dean makes himself pay for it, each and every day.

A/N: This story does feature John Winchester being incredibly abusive towards Dean. Personally I don't believe for a second that John would behave in such a manner. He was a decent man who raised his boys as best he could under horrific conditions. I like Papa Winchester, and I miss him not being on the show.

That said, this story needed a villain, and John was the logical choice. If you do not like to see John Winchester as an abusive SOB, turn back NOW.

Ye have been warned.

_**Then…**_

It's funny. After all those years I can still see the sad look on Dad's face as he cradled Sam that night, after the shtriga left.

I can still remember the look of absolute hatred on his face when he looked at me after Sam died.

We crisscrossed the country after that, killing things. Don't remember if they were all evil; some of them _had_ to be, I guess. I was Dad's good little soldier, his perfect weapon. I killed whatever he pointed me at. Didn't realize what he was _really_ doing until later. Much later.

I remember places we've been by the scars and injuries I got. That long scar down my left side? Got that one in Boston, hunting that bhut. Fucker picked me up and slammed me up against the side of one'a those tall metal dumpsters.

Salt Lake City, Utah? Dislocated left shoulder. Twice in one week. Once by the fugly I was chasing, the second time when some yahoos in a bar got mad when I beat them at pool and they tried to jump me in the alley afterwards.

That puncture wound in my right thigh was Baltimore, Maryland, from that fugly in the sewer. Jabbed me with those sharp claws of his right before I nailed him with that consecrated iron stake and sent him squealing back to hell. Septic shock damn near killed me, but I beat it and I limped out of that friggin' hospital alive.

Years later I'll always remember St Louis, Missouri, because there it finally dawned on me that Dad was trying to get me killed. That's also where I got those claw-marks on my left ankle.

Should've run like hell, then, as far away from him as I could.

I should've.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

Before that I didn't even wonder. Didn't question why sometimes he was a little slow when he had my back. Didn't wonder why, when I found myself face to face with a fucking black dog, or were-panther or some other ungodly critter Dad hesitated for one reason or another.

Afterwards he'd always patch me up or take me to the hospital when I needed it. Never wondered or worried if he'd passed me a gun loaded with blanks, or if the silver flasks were filled with plain tap water, instead of holy water. Somehow I don't think he would have been_ that_ obvious. I was just as fucked up in the head as he was, and the idea of suicide by fugly did have a certain kind of ironic appeal to it.

I was younger. I was like a cat in those days. A lean young alley cat with nine lives and plenty of luck to spare. Youth and time was on my side, at least for a while.

Sooner or later, though, that shit will wear you down. I was twenty seven the year all of that finally ended. I was bone tired, nearly used up, and even though we shared the same motel room Dad barely spoke to me unless he absolutely had to. He'd bark orders at me, and I followed them, and after we hunted and killed whatever fugly we were after we'd stumble back to the motel room or the cabin or where ever with hardly a word to one another.

I tried to make up for Sam's death. I did. I trained harder. I ran faster. I was a fucking genius with firearms, knives, you name it. I could recite the _Rituale Romanum_ in my sleep, forwards _and _backwards. The first Latin phrase I learned was _Honora Patrum Tuum._

_Honor Your Father_. Poetic irony's one mean spirited bitch.

I did everything Dad ever wanted me to, and then some.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

Because after all of that, Sam was_ still _dead. That night in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, I'd killed my five year old brother as surely as if I'd taken that shotgun, put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger myself.

And I knew that sooner or later, my luck would run out. Sooner or later I would meet up with the fugly that was a little faster than I am. The critter that I couldn't take down, the one that would latch its claws into me and drain me dry, of my blood, of my life energy, of my worthless, useless life.

And it would be a sweet relief when it happened.

Sometimes during the night, always when Dad was off on a solo hunt or a night-long drinking binge and I was alone, Sam would show himself to me inside the motel room, or the cabin. He never came when Dad was around. Never.

Five year old Sammy would sit there on the bed and watch me as I cleaned weapons, inventoried our supplies, did research on the laptop. My heart tightened up in my chest each and every time. I couldn't concentrate, and the back of my nose prickled, but I wasn't gonna start bawling in front of the boy.

That should have been me. Sam deserved better than _this_.

He didn't talk much. He just sat there and watched me with this goofy little grin on his little kid face.

Usually Sam was still there when I turned the lights out and went to bed. When I laid down I'd stretch out my arm and curl it around him. He'd scoot over to me as close as he could, and I swear I could actually feel his body heat. I could still smell Fruit Loops and milk in his hair.

Dad didn't have the heart to salt and burn Sammy. I knew that was the _first_ thing he was gonna do to me after I was dead. If he couldn't stand the sight of me when I was alive, I doubted he'd want to see me after I was dead and gone.

"We gonna be together after this, huh, Dean?" Sammy said softly, and I nodded.

"Sure, Sammy. Sure we are."

"You and me and Mom." He reached out, and his fingers skimmed my cheekbone. My vision blurred, and I couldn't help it.

His fingers brushed away the tear on my cheek, and the sad smile on his face made him seem older.

"It'll be all right, Dean. You'll see. It's not your fault."

Sammy always said that, and like always, I didn't believe him.

The first time I met that yellow eyed bastard in my dreams was during the last six months I spent with Dad.

It was hot that night, and the air conditioner in the motel room was busted. It was like a fucking oven in that place, so I opened one of the windows up halfway and slipped my Bowie knife under my pillow. We were in some cheap ass motel just outside of Tampa, Florida, and the humidity was bad even at night. I don't see how the people that live there can stand that dampness all year round. I'll take Vegas and its low humidity any time over Florida.

I went to bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. Going commando around Dad wasn't even an option. I pulled the top sheet loosely over me, up to my waist. One minute I'm curled up on my side, listening to Dad snore in the other bed….

The next minute I'm standing…somewhere…pitch black sky above, bleached bone moon riding low overhead. The hot sand burned the soles of my feet.

And a man-sized shadow with yellow eyes stood there staring at me.

The Demon shook its head as it licked its lips. It looked me up and down like I was a fucking piece of meat. The only thing I had on were those damned boxer briefs. I was barefoot with no weapons, not even a damn knife.

"Your life must be welded to your spine, Deano," the damned thing remarked casually as it walked around behind me. Its fingers slid over my side, my hipbones, low across my back, the kind of slow, thoughtful caress one lover would give another. I shuddered, and it laughed.

"What the fuck do you want?" I sounded tough, at least.

"Nothing. Just checking up on you. Wanted to see how you were doing."

I couldn't move. My skin felt cold, clammy. The only part of me I could move was my mouth and my fingers, and it laughed like hell when it saw my fingers twitch uselessly.

"Now you know what ol' John boy's been up to," it whispered as its tongue slid wetly up the side of my neck from behind. Teeth nipped at my earlobe. "You're a smart boy. Don't need to draw you a picture, do I, Dean? Sooner or later he's gonna get lucky. Sooner or later," and the yellow-eyed bastard mouthed the skin at my neck and shoulder, barely breaking my skin with its teeth, "_your_ luck's gonna run out."

_Stop touching me. Oh God, please, stop touching me…_

"I don't think so," the Demon purred in my ear. "I'm not holding you. You _want_ this. You_ want_ to be punished. Degraded. Humilated. Ever wonder _why_ you stick with the bastard? Gorgeous young critter like you could make it just about anywhere. You got the looks, kid, smarts, too, but you think you're worthless, so instead you hang around dear old Dad, trying to make up for a mistake you made when you were a kid. Demons I get. You humans?" It shrugged as it slid around in front of me. "You're all fucking nuts."

I realized it wasn't lying. Not that time, anyway. It _wasn't_ holding me in place. I was face to face with the bastard that killed my mother, face to face with the sumbitch that started this whole sorry chain of events in motion, and all I could do was stand there.

"Wh-what do you—"

"Sssh." It pressed one ink black finger against my lips, then took its thumb and slowly smudged my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. "Just listen. I can help you with your problem, that's all I'm saying. Give it some thought. Then, when you're ready, call on me."

I could feel weight on me from behind, on my shoulders. Everything faded out, and hot breath stirred the hair at the back of my neck. When I came back to myself I was laying in my bed on my belly. I didn't even flinch when Dad's broad fingers pulled at the waistband of the boxer briefs I was wearing.

Dad growled under his breath, called me a motherless bastard, a worthless sumbitch, and as he pulled my boxer briefs off and spread my legs apart from behind, God help me, the only thought I had was that I deserve this too….

Two weeks later I made a run up to Bobby Singer's Auto Yard in South Dakota, for some books we needed for a hunt. I've always liked Bobby. Always felt comfortable up at his place. Dad used to run a garage in Lawrence before Mom…well, before Mom died, and I used to wonder if things would have turned out differently if she hadn't….

I rolled up to Bobby's in the Impala about lunchtime.

He was out back working on a truck, and the loud rumbling of the girl's engine was loud enough to attract several of the junkyard dogs. Rumsfeld 2 loped out first, followed by Cheney, Brownie, and a new one, a big black German Shepherd mix named Condie, after Condelezza Rice.

Rumsfeld 2 sat his big butt down on the toes of my work boots, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and panted happily as I skritched him in that sweet spot, right underneath his chin. The rest of them lined up to be scratched as Bobby came towards me, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

The skin around Bobby's eyes crinkled like Dad's used to when he smiled at me, before Sam died.

"I still have to pack a few things," Bobby said as he looked me up and down. A small crease of worry formed between his eyes, and I suddenly had the feeling he knew something. He'd heard something, but I didn't know what. I held myself in carefully, prayed that he didn't notice how much I favored my right side where Dad nicked me with his Kershaw knife. "Can you stay for lunch?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Sure." I followed Bobby inside, into the kitchen, and I barely flinched as I eased onto one of the kitchen chairs.

Bobby raised one eyebrow slightly so I knew he'd spotted it anyway. He didn't say anything. Not then. He didn't say anything until after we ate. We had thick roast beef sandwiches and cold bottles of beer, and it was the best tasting meal I'd had in weeks.

Later on we walked back into his living room. I sat there in the comfortable old easy chair and skritched Cheney underneath his chin, and Bobby got right to it as he moved around the room filling the duffel with books and amulets.

"You get that on that last hunt?" he said casually.

"Yeah." I grinned sheepishly. Cheney grinned back at me as I worked that sweet spot with my fingers. "I zigged when I shoulda zagged. Fugly threw me into a wall."

"Huh." Bobby shook his head. "John didn't have your back?"

That grin of mine disappeared. Real quick. "Bobby, don't—"

Bobby sounded pissed. I'm pretty sure he would have walked over, grabbed me by my collar and shook the shit out of me, if he hadn't been afraid of hurting me even more.

"Why do you_ do_ that, Dean? You think getting hurt all the time is some kind of penance? For Sam?"

I looked away. I couldn't answer. I looked down and Cheney looked up at me, a puzzled look on his broad face, because my fingers stopped.

I held my hand out, wiggled my fingers. "C'mere, boy," and Cheney chuffed, grinned happily, leaned into my touch.

Hell, at least_ some_ damn body was happy to see me.

"Why do you think you need to be punished like that, Dean?" Bobby said quietly.

"I don't –I --I knew better--- "

"You were a kid! You were nine years old---"

"Dad gave me a direct order to stay with Sam, Bobby. Sam depended on me. He depended on me, and I fucked it up."

Bobby shook his head, made a sound like a growl of frustration as he packed up the rest of the bag.

I hit the road soon after that. I pushed the girl's engine hard and turned my music up.

Loud.

And none of it did any fucking good.

I headed back to Dad. Back to my own personal, private hell on earth.

Usually I could tell if the night was gonna be a bad one just by the smell of alcohol as I walked through the door. That told me that Dad had been spending some heavy duty quality time with Jack and Jose and friends. That also told me I was gonna be that evening's entertainment.

He never marked up my face. Never.

One time Dad told me that I looked just like Mom, that he was so fucking lonely he couldn't stand it, that was why he did all those things to me. He told me that it was_ my_ fault he acted the way he did, what with Mom and Sammy _both_ being gone. He kicked me, punched me, stabbed me, and it was all to the body. I guess if he had marked up my face to his mind he'd be telling the world what was _really_ going on between us at night.

Too many questions and no right answers, and I knew Bobby or Ellen would start to wonder, not that Bobby didn't already seem to know part of what was going on anyway.

Sometimes Dad would slip drugs into my food or whatever I was drinking. Whenever he handed me something to drink when we were alone I was in complete denial. Man, I was able to ignore the funny aftertaste, and sure enough, when I woke up he had me up against the wall or on the floor or the bed as he pushed into me hard from behind, growling at me as he bit at the back of my neck. He'd tell me I was a worthless piece of shit and this was the least I could do for all the pain and sorrow I'd caused our family.

I could have refused to take the can, cup or bottle from his hand, could have gotten my jacket and walked out.

I didn't.

Sam was dead. Because of me.

The day the shit finally hit the fan I had only been gone a couple of hours doing research at the library. A vengeful spirit out at the old Pierson Ironworks factory was making mincemeat out of the demolition crew that was taking the place down. Head dude in charge was one of Dad's old Marine buddies from 'Nam, which was why we got the call. Semper Fi.

My guard was completely down as I opened the door. Dad hit me in the side of the face with his fist. Felt like he'd picked up the table and slammed me with it, but I'm pretty sure it was just his fist.

I hit the floor on my knees, hard. I threw my hands out in front of me, and that was the only reason I didn't face-plant into that worn hard-wood floor. Dad growled, deep in his throat, mumbled his usual tirade about me being a worthless bastard, and he walked forward, kicked my arms out from under me. The world went white with pain as the floor came up to meet me….

Next thing I knew I was sitting in a chair. Ropes snug around my wrists and ankles, not too tight, not too loose. Just right. Something warm and salty ran from my nose into my mouth, and I tasted salt and copper. Blood. I didn't even have time to react when Dad's shadow fell over me again. I didn't even see his hand move, over and over again.

Every time he hit me I lost something. My left cheekbone caved in. Blood spurted from one corner of my mouth. My right eye went dark. I'd been waiting for this all my life. I just didn't think Dad would get tired of waiting and do the fucking job himself, but then he always had been hands on.

I looked over Dad's left shoulder. Five year old Sammy was standing there, wide-eyed, tears running down his face. He looked so sad, and I couldn't understand why. Today was the day I was coming home.

I looked at Dad with my one remaining good eye, and he smiled at me. Real wide, cheerful grin, and it even reached his eyes.

His dark yellow eyes.

Everything faded out after that….

I was actually kind of disappointed when I woke up.

I don't know what I expected, but believe me, massive pain all over my body and the sight of Dad pacing back and forth all yellow-eyed wasn't it. Maybe a tunnel with a white light at the end of it? I don't know.

Dad grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. "You little pissant," he drawled. "You fucked up_ everything_, you know that? That night you let Sammy die._ He_ was the one I was waitin' for all along.The kid had power. Juice._ I_ asked you, _we_ asked you to look after him, and you couldn't even do that one simple thing."

He held my head with both hands. He leaned down and he kissed my mouth, bit and nipped at me with his teeth, and he thrust his tongue down my throat so hard I gagged. He mouth fucked me, and when he finally pulled away he smiled as he licked my blood from his lips.

I couldn't pull air into my lungs fast enough. My chest and throat hurt like a sumbitch. Everything was getting dark, and he threaded one hand in my hair and slapped me on my cheek. Hard.

"I've always been with John, and he's always been with me. We had ourselves a cozy little arrangement. Sam was promised to me from the moment he was born. Your mama found out, and the bitch wasn't too happy about it, either. _You_ were just a means to an end, Deano. Expendable. That's all. You're one lucky sumbitch, though, but playtime's over, _son_." The word "son" sounded like a cuss word coming out of his mouth. "I got tired of waiting, you know that."

There was somebody standing behind Dad, and at first I didn't recognize the dude. He was tall, taller than I am. Shaggy dark brown hair, broad shoulders. Hazel eyes. I didn't know how in the hell he got inside the cabin in the first place, but I wanted to tell him to leave, to run. I knew I was a dead man; there was no sense in this kid getting killed too.

The kid looked at me all concerned and worried. He glared at Dad like he wanted to rip him apart.

Dad turned around and grinned at him.

"I_ knew_ you'd come. You been avoiding me, boy. What, you show your face to this worthless freak, but you can't take the time to swing by and say howdy to your poor old grieving daddy? After all these years? Sammy, I'm surprised at you."

"Leave him alone," the kid growled, "or ---"

"Or what, Sam? You'll _what_?"

"S-Sam? Sammy?" Blood ran into my one good eye and I squinted so I could see better.

"Yep." Dad grabbed me by the chin and yanked my head forward. "Take a good look at him, Dean, before I blind you in that other eye. Sammy's all growed up in the afterlife. Death becomes him, don't you think? That's what being a direct link to the Greater Good will do for ya. Damn._ I_ wanted to darken him, but I never got the chance."

"I told you," Sam growled, "get your fucking hands off my brother."

"Make me, psychic boy," Dad snarled. Then he grinned. "Oh, that's right. You _can't._ You're one'a them _dead _psychic boys." He petted me on the top of my head, like I was some damn dog or something. I snapped at him with my teeth, missed, and Dad laughed.

"You're just in time, Sammy boy. I finally figured it out that all I had to do was make this worthless bastard suffer, and I mean _really_ suffer, and you'd come. Pay attention now." The ropes holding me loosened, and Dad pulled me out of the chair, held me upright with one hand fisted in my t shirt.

My head bobbled back and forth but I managed to spit right in his eyes.

That yellow color in Dad's eyes flared up. Something I couldn't see gripped my entire body, and I was turned around, slammed face first into the wall behind me.

I was pressed into the wall so hard that I couldn't breathe. Fingers or something fumbled at the zipper of my jeans, but I couldn't feel anything else. There was this god-awful gurgling sound, and something knocked hard against the hardwood floor. Long strong arms circled around me, held me, and I was so out of it I didn't even startle at the touch.

I remember being gently lowered to the floor, and then I greyed out.

I remember that much. I also remember what I saw when I could finally see again.

I saw Sam's face.

He was older, looked to be about twenty two, twenty three, and he smiled at me. He was tall, damn, he was taller than me by about four inches, broader, heavier, and it irritated the hell outta me, freaked me out and saddened me all at the same time.

He held me in his arms. I heard labored breathing coming from behind him, and I raised my head. I tried to look around his left shoulder.

Dad lay on the floor. His legs kicked and twitched. His yellow eyes were pale, almost white, wide and staring, and his whole body shook.

I tried to raise up even further, and Sam shook his head gently, _no_.

Looking at Sam I realized what I took from him, and my shoulders shook, and my face got wet, and I just didn't give a fuck anymore.

"Sammy," I mumbled brokenly, "Dude, I'm – I'm sorry…I am so fucking sorry…"

He smiled. "Everything happens for a reason, 'bro. It does. You gotta believe that. It's not your fault. Never was." He ran the palm of one of those big hands of his over my chest and shoulders, and the pain in my body went away.

"You rest now." Sam whispered in my ear. I mumbled something, tried to struggle back up, and Sam gently pulled me back down. I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open.

"Bobby and Ellen are coming. After Mom died, you were the only one that took care of me, raised me, really gave a damn about me. Always. Time I gave that back to you, bro'. Rest now, Dean."

I laid my head against his shoulder, and I did.

I didn't know if it was hours or days later. I heard cars pull up to the front of the cabin. Low whispered voices, doors slammed carefully shut. I could still feel Sam's arms around me, and he chuckled.

"I told you, Dean," Sam murmured softly. "I told you it would be all right."

"Nobody…likes a…know-it-all…Sammy," I muttered slowly, and I don't remember much after that.

_**Now…**_

These days I'm living in South Dakota, working at Bobby's. To this day Bobby won't tell me exactly what happened to Dad, and to be honest, right now I don't care enough to ask him. Maybe someday. Not now. Bobby gets this haunted look in his eyes whenever I bring the subject up, so I've decided to drop it. For now.

Ellen took me to the nearest hospital while Bobby tended to Dad.

I made a full recovery physically. To look at me you just wouldn't imagine that I had the hell beaten out of me, no pun intended. The doctors were "astounded." I was rolled in on a gurney; I walked out of that damn hospital in five days time.

I still have trouble sometimes sleeping straight through the night. I can't stand for anyone to stand real close to me, either in front or behind me. I'm getting better each day, though. Sometimes I still feel like I don't deserve anything good or decent.

And just when I start really wallowing around in self-pity like some emo chick, Sam shows up.

Grown up Sam, most of the time. Sometimes he's five years old, sometimes he's older, but no matter what, he's always going to be my little brother.

"It'll be okay, Dean." Sammy says softly. "It'll be okay. You'll see."

And _this_ time, I believe him.

_finis_


End file.
